@Johnny U Here's the problem with Black QB's! They are usually the best athlete on there high school team. So they drop back to pass the pocket breaks down and the first thing they do is run. This is the beginning of them forming bad habits.When they run usually good things happen for their team,so their high school coach doesn't care as long as their winning.Most white QB's aren't the best athlete on the team and when the pocket breaks down the white QB is force to use his mind and slide in the pocket and find the open man. Then most of the Black QB's go to college and bring their bad habits with them thus never developing their potential. I am a Ram fan and I can tell you Steve Young was the same way. The best thing that happened to him was going to the 49ers who I hate! But Bill Walsh was a great coach and Steve Young had to sit and learn behind Montana.But Steve still wanted to run at first when the pocket started to collapse but Bill Walsh only wanted his QB's to run as a last resort and that took Steve a little while to learn, when to hang in the pocket till the last minute and find the open receiver or when to run. So until High school coaches start to make their Black QB's run only as the last option I just don't see the Black QB developing in the same numbers as the white QB's.
I'm sure you're all aware, but St. Stalin's Day was on Saturday. If, however, you've been living under a rock, St. Stalin's Day is the Russian version of St. Patrick's Day. My friends and I drunkenly decided this two months ago, as detailed in my Jerks of St. Patrick's Day entry.
Why Stalin? I don't know. It seemed appropriate at the time, eight beers into the night. Nevertheless, my friends and I ordered red "Quit Stalin" t-shirts, which drew mixed reactions on Saturday. My friend Schmidty summed it up best upon seeing them: "Those are some pretty controversial shirts you have there."
I wouldn't have it any other way. In fact, I don't consider it a successful day if I don't offend anyone. I do find it interesting, however, that all those offended weren't Russian. My Russian friends got a kick out of it, while my own parents occasionally drink a red wine called "Joe's," which has a picture of Joseph Stalin on it. My mom even said, "That's funny, but maybe you shouldn't call him SAINT Stalin." However, I had this type of conversation a few times leading up to Saturday:
Friend: I don't get it. What's St. Stalin's Day?
Me: It's the Russian version of St. Patrick's Day!
Friend: But why are you honoring him? He murdered so many people.
Me: Yeah, that's just what the media says though. He was misunderstood.
Friend: Misunderstood!? He was a terrible person!
Me: Well, maybe he was forced into it.
Friend: You're crazy. How can you celebrate St. Stalin? I mean, Stalin?
Me: Ugh, why are you taking me so seriously? It's just a day of drinking. Why do you have a dildoe up your buttocks?
Seriously. I mean, think about it. People celebrate St. Patrick's Day even though no one knows who he was, or what he did. How do we know that St. Patrick didn't kill 500 million people? How do we know that St. Patrick didn't fund QB Dog Killer's dogfighting syndicate? And even worse, what if St. Patrick is in league with Rick Santorum to eliminate lesbian porn? St. Patrick clearly could be a monster, but I'm still willing to drink to him.
While no one on this planet knows who St. Patrick was, Stalin is a much more famous figure. Or so you'd think. I discovered that an extraordinary number of people don't have a clue as to who Stalin was. I'll give you the details in my St. Stalin's Day recap:
Chickie's & Pete's:
The first stop on our St. Stalin's Day tour was at Chickie's & Pete's, a pretty large bar-restaurant 10 minutes away from my house. They're known for their famous crab fries, which go extremely well with cheese sauce. It's so gooooodoowdwd - crap I think I mini-stroke just writing about them.
I was stuffing crab fries into my mouth when my friend and former neighbor Melissa called to inform me she was swinging by. I went outside so I could hear her. That proved to be futile, unfortunately, because there were about a half-a-dozen 14-year-old prostitots loitering in front of the establishment. They quickly took interest to my "Quit Stalin" t-shirt.
Prostitot No. 1: OMG OMG OMG THAT GUY'S WEARIN' A QUIT STALLION SHIRT!
Prostitot No. 2: QUIT STALLION! QUIT STALLION!
Prostitot No. 1: OMG OMG OMG ARE YOU ST. STALLION!?
Prostitot No. 3: That says Quit Staylin; not Quit Stalin!
Prostitot No. 4: What the hell's Quit Staylin?
Prostitot No. 5: I dunno, hey what does Quit Staylin mean?
I was on the phone, so I couldn't really go into much detail; not that I wanted to.
Me: It's Quit Stalin!
Prostitot No. 1: OMG OMG QUICK STALIN!
Prostitot No. 2: QUICK STALIN! QUICK STALIN!
Prostitot No. 3: He said Quit Stalin; not Quick Stalin!
Prostitot No. 4: What the hell's Quit Stalin?
Prostitot No. 5: I dunno, hey what does Quit Stalin mean?
Melissa mercifully arrived at that very moment, so I didn't have to answer any other stupid questions. Thank God.
Melissa sat down at our table, now seating eight people - my former college roommate Dennis, Ces (formerly known as Angry Asian Guy), Adrienne, Marlana, Jess, Sometimes Trashed Girl and myself. I thought adding Melissa would be a problem; the bad thing about Chickie's & Pete's is that they won't seat you unless your entire party is present, and according to Sometimes Trashed Girl, they're very anal about adding members to a party. I don't get it. What do they think is going to happen, some random person is going to swoop in late and steal all of their precious crab fries? Actually... that does sound like a good idea. I'll have to try this out when the Chickie's & Pete's staff has its guard down.
At any rate, I showed Melissa the toast I delivered for St. Stalin's Day. Jess recorded it on her phone and posted it on my Facebook wall, so check that out if you want. You may be quick to point out that I hate toasts, but everyone made me do it. It was just too much peer pressure. Plus, it was the first St. Stalin's Day ever, so I had to do a toast. It'll haunt me for years though.
My Old Gym:
Why in the world would I go to my old gym - or any gym for that matter - on a drinking holiday? Does Russian culture entail being eaten by obese women in the pool? Actually, yes. Remember how Stalin supposedly murdered millions of people? Well, how do you think he did it? He locked innocent individuals in a gym pool with dozens of hungry, fat ladies. Safe to say that no one made it out alive.
In all seriousness, my gym was hosting Two Funny Philly Guys, a comedy show featuring Philly radio personality Big Daddy Graham, impersonator extraordinaire Joe Conklin and even former U.S senator Arlen Specter, who was shockingly hilarious. Since I sponsored the event, they gave me 10 free tickets, so I invited all of my friends (Dennis left, while Val, Body Burners, his girlfriend Jamie and her sister Jess joined us).
This was yet another place where the people didn't know who Stalin was. As I was walking in, one old geezer looked at my shirt and exclaimed, "Ha! Quit Stoolin!"
I'd say this guy was drunk, but getting inebriated at my old gym would have been extremely difficult. There was a long line for beer, and a cup of piss-warm Miller Lite was $4. What was this, some overrated New York comedy club where everyone thinks they're better than everyone else because they just happen to be there? I was actually under the impression that beer would be free at this event because tickets were $25 in advance and $30 at the door. I told my friends ahead of time that beer might be free, so they were all very disappointed in me.
Meanwhile, a number of interesting things happened. I saw a friend I used to hang out with when we were in grade school for the first time in years. His whole family was there, and when they discovered what I was promoting on their t-shirt, they shook their heads in disappointment. I swear I heard them say, "Where did he go wrong?"
I also received texts from a number not in my contacts list throughout the show. Here they are:
I want your body.
I will do dirty things to you.
And then afterwards we will wilk.
Have a tea party.
I wanna lilililick you from your head to your toes and I wanna move dadadown to the floor.
Hot damn you are too sexy for words.
We makea with yhe ssxy yes.
Has anyone told you that the back of your head is ridicuilus?
I spent half of the comedy show looking around, trying to figure out who was texting me, but no one was being obvious.
The show itself was pretty good, though Big Daddy Graham repeated the same jokes (albeit funny ones) from when I saw him in 2007. Conklin and Specter were both terrific, and almost made me forget that I was drinking warm urine.
But none of those three comedians compared to what happened at the end. As people began filing out, they announced the winner of the 50-50 drawing. To do this, they asked the Hot Nursing School Girl employee to shake the box, which as you can imagine, was very entertaining. I definitely would have paid $30 for a ticket just to see that.
We usually go to Tango, a bar down the block from me, but it's been closed the past two weekends because there are new owners, and the old ones never renewed their liquor license***. So, we went to Sweeny's instead, which is right across the street.
*** Side note: Liquor licenses are a load of crap. Why does any establishment need liquor licenses? It's just bureaucratic bulls*** that shouldn't be necessary. If every single bar banded together and said, "F- you government, we're not getting any liquor license, there's nothing the political crooks could do about it.
Sweeny's is bigger than Tango, but we never went there because they used to allow cigarette smoking. As a non-smoker, I always thought that was the worst. If you're at a smoking bar, you either have to shower after coming home or change your sheets the following day. As a man who doesn't know how to change sheets, I always was forced to hop into the shower at 3 a.m. I'm so glad most bars force people to go outside to smoke.
Anyway, the Sweeney's patrons gave me dirty looks. Perhaps those sophisticated people actually knew who Stalin was.
Well, not all of them did. This short chick shaped like a bowling ball approached me to ask what my shirt meant. I quickly discovered that she was drunk out of her mind.
Me: It's the Russian version of St. Patrick's Day!
Bowling Ball Girl: I dinnzz eeevvaann knoowwzzz thaaasss!
Me: Well, now you know!
Bowling Ball Girl: Waaiizz a miinnnnuzzz, izzzz thuussss reeaaalll orrrr yeerrr mmaakunn it upppp!?
Me: It's definitely real! Spread the word!
Minutes later, I could barely talk because some stupid battle of the bands thing commenced. My cousin Megan showed up (also, my friend Matt, my sister and my other cousin Polina), and I wanted to buy her a drink because she just graduated from Penn State. She wanted a vodka cranberry, while Ces asked for a bottle Stella. So, I approached the bartender...
Me: Hey, can I have a vodka cranberry, a Blue Moon and a Stella?
Bartender: Wiwgow o sb f gh rj bfjb sdkj obnroeguebdsl.
Me: WHAT!? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!
Bartender: rhro oq 8feubsdbs s oqbulkn bfkb rw;o snbe jer bnrb.
I still have no idea what he said, but I just went with it. He brought over my three drinks and raised six fingers. That really confused me. How could two beers and a vodka cranberry amount to $6? A Blue Moon I ordered previously was $3.75. It didn't make any sense.
I handed the bartender a $20, thinking I misread him, but he brought back $14 in change. I was so perplexed. I had 11-12 beers thus far, so it occurred to me that I might have been stealing alcohol, so I left him a $5 tip.
Minutes later, something more bizarre happened - the other bartender came by and gave me another Blue Moon! I have no idea what I did to deserve these discounts and free beers. Were they Joseph Stalin sympathizers? Is Sweeny's a secret communist hangout? This is the only plausible explanation I've been able to come up with.
As this was happening, I was still getting texts from that unknown number. Here they are:
I first want to undress you with my teeth, lick you from waist to nipple and suckle on your sweet teet.
While I suckle I shall gently caress your inner thigh while gingerly grabbing your amazingly masculine nut sack and tenderly teasing them... until they are ready for my mouth.
Once I feel you are ready for my mouth Big Boy, I'll get out the pop rocks and blow your mind.
Then you're going to get the ride of your life.
I was too distracted by two things to figure out who was sending these texts. The first was darts. We played 701, and I won, hitting the No. 9 when I had exactly nine remaining. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. I high-fived everyone, including this hot, blond bar wench, who was collecting our empty bottles.
The second was the bar wench. She continuously gave me a look whenever she passed by. It was either a "I want to bang you. I get off at 2" glare, or "Stop staring at me, you perv!" gaze. They're pretty close, so I have a difficult time differentiating between the two.
Everyone walked out of the bar to go back to my house around 1, but I stayed with the bar wench because she was having difficulty with the vending machine. She ordered some Snyder's of Hanover pretzels, but the bag got caught in the coils.
Bar Wench: Ugh, seriously?
Me: That sucks, but maybe you can get two bags if you buy another one.
Bar Wench: Should I take the risk?
Me: I'd do it.
It would occur to me later that I should have bought another bag to be her knight in shining armor, but I had just completed my 13th beer of the day, so I wasn't thinking clearly. She inserted 90 more cents, and out came two bags. I thought I'd take this opportunity to impress her.
Me: You know, my college roommate Jared owned Snyder's of Hanover. Well, his parents do.
Bar Wench: Oh, OK.
Bar Wench was not impressed. Instead, she just walked away. Hmm... I guess it was the "Stop staring at me, you perv!" glare after all. Oh well. Worst-case scenario, I could have my nut sack suckled by the anonymous texter later that night...
Everyone was waiting at my house as I failed to game Bar Wench. My sister drove me over. En route, I received a text from Jess: "Hey, my friend Pat is coming over. Do you mind if he brings two girls with him?"
Do I... wait... do I mind if a dude brings two girls? What kind of a question is that? Why not just ask me some of the following questions?
Do you want to be raped by a hot chick?
Do you want fries with that?
Do you want to be in a threesome with two girls?
Do you want to be raped by an average-looking woman?
Do you want a meal during sex?
Should I get a boob job so my breasts will be much larger?
Unfortunately, Jess deceived me. The two aforementioned girls were accompanied by a pair of dudes. Both chicks were hot, but the redhead was with Pat, while the blonde was with some other guy. My whole night was ruined!
Well... not totally. Body Burners and I won 11 games of beer pong in a row. It got so bad that we offered to let the other team shoot three balls per turn, yet we still won. Only the combination of Matt and Ces offered any sort of challenge, and we were still able to prevail in overtime.
The other drinking games didn't go so well. A group of eight people or so played Kings, but it abruptly ended when there was a dispute during "Never Have I Ever." I have no idea what was said, but a couple of people stormed out of my house angrily. As you can see, we take our drinking games very seriously.
As for the anonymous texter? I was still getting messages:
I bet you're wondering who this is, right?
Because I am into role play and want to be the dkrty police officer who cuffs you to the bed and make you pay for your bad behavior.
I wanna f*** you like an animal... And feel you from the inside.
That's hot. Unfortunately, I never discovered who it was, and I was never felt from the inside by anyone that night.
I went to sleep knowing that Stalin would have been disappointed in me because I wasn't banged like an animal. Fortunately, I can make up for it on St. Stalin's Day next year.